


Too Much Whiskey is Barely Enough.

by largoindminor



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Drunk Dean, M/M, Spoilers for S11, but in the past, could be interpreted as attempted suicide i guess, h/c, implied suicidal ideation, russian roullette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-20
Updated: 2015-11-20
Packaged: 2018-05-02 12:34:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5248442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/largoindminor/pseuds/largoindminor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Coda of sorts to 11x07. Dean gets trashed and emotional about Sam's visions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Too Much Whiskey is Barely Enough.

**Author's Note:**

> also [here](http://sasquatchandleatherjacket.tumblr.com/post/133576512697/theres-a-loud-bang-from-the-kitchen-sounds-like)

There’s a loud bang from the kitchen, sounds like an avalanche of pots and pans and utensils and Sam half jogs down the hall to check it out. Sure enough, four pots, two frying pans, an absurd number of lids, two spatulas and on Dean are sprawled out on the floor. Dean looks up red faced and smiles.

“Wanted s’m eggs,” he slurs by way of explanation and grabs the counter top to pull himself up. When he’s halfway to his feel he stumbles again and Sam grabs his arm to steady him. Dean flashes an easy, glassy eyed smile and leans into Sam. “Thanksssammy.”

The words are drawn out and smooshed together, huffed out along with the overwhelming smell of whiskey.

“How much have you had?” Sam puts on his best disapproving voice, but truth be told, getting wasted seems kind of appealing.

Dean shrugs and laughs, the messy chortle of the truly shitfaced. “Not enough, baby brother, not enough.”

Sam helps Dean slip into a char and turns to pick up the mess. “Eggs you wanted?” Dean grunts an affirmative and Sam gathers the ingredients to scramble some up.

Dean wolfs down four eggs in about ten seconds flat, and Sam would tease him for being a pig, but by the way he’s swaying in his seat, he’s really had far too much to drink and it’s a good thing he just got some food in him. Sam brings the plate to the sink and stacks it on the dirty pan- Dean clean that mess up tomorrow- and fills a glass of water

“Sammy. Sam Sam Sam. Saaaaammmmmmmy. Thank you.” It’s  _almost_ comical, but Dean hasn’t been this drunk in a long time, maybe ever, and that’s a little more concerning than funny, all things considered.  

“You’re welcome. You’re also blitzed. How bout you drink this,” he sets the glass in front of Dean, “and then try to get some sleep, hmm?”

Dean downs the water like he’s told and let’s Sam help him to his room. He somehow manages to remove his shoes and jeans without assistance but Sam lingers just to make sure, helps him into bed. Sam’s at the door to flick off the light when Dean sits up.

“S'my… stay here ‘k?” he mumbles and flops back down on the bed

Sam’s not sure he even heard him right, it’s been a while since they shared a bed and even longer since they did just for sleep (because in Dean’s current state, clearly nothing else was going to happen). He walks back over to the side of the bed and asks, “Hmm?”

“Stay here. Heeeeeere. Just. Don’ go ok? Please?”

And Sam’s still not sure he’s getting it, because it doesn’t even sound like Dean, but Deans eyes are sad and pleading and he’s looking at him in a way that makes Sam’s heart break a little, so he kicks off his shoes and jeans and lays down next to Dean, facing him.

“Ok. Right here. Better?”

Dean smiles but it’s a sad sort of smile and when he closes his eyes Sam swears there’s wetness on his lashes.

“Bett'r”

“Are you? I mean. Are you ok? What’s– I haven’t seen you this wasted in forever.”

Dean opens his eyes again, brings his hand to clumsily cup the side of Sam’s face and it’s obvious he’s trying to decide whether to answer, examines Sam for a few seconds like maybe the answer is hidden in his eyes. “I can’t do it again. Sam. I won’t do it again.”

And, ok, but, “Do what?”

“Let you go. You can’t go back there. The cage. Lufice—Lucifer. Whatever. I can’t, ’m not gonna let you.

Sam inhales deeply, pushes his head a little into Dean’s touch. The same old argument. “Dean, these visions, they could be a way out of this mess. I can’t just. Do nothing. I can’t let this go on if I know there’s something  _I_ could do to stop it. Why should my life be more important than yours? Or anyone’s? Everyone’s?”

“Because it is. It just fucking is, ok, Sammy?” and Sam’s heart breaks some more at the way Dean’s voice hitches when he says his name. “There’s another way. Has to be. It don’t have to be you. Not this time. ’s not fair.”

Sam understands, he does, would feel the same way were the situation reversed. But that doesn’t change anything. “Because it  _is_ me _._ It just is. I don’t know why. But Dean, whatever happens, you’ll be fine, ok? You promise me. Like before. You deserve it, and it’s not too late and you could–”

Dean interrupts him with a laugh and there’s bitterness beneath it. “Wasn’t ok. Not fine, Sam when you were– I wasn’t fine. I know you made me make that promise and I tried. Tried to do it for you but I was never once  _fine_. I was… I did… I used to drive off for days. Take dad’s old gun…” Dean pauses. Pauses for along time and Sam’s maybe I little grateful he’ll never know where that sentence was headed, but Dean picks up again eventually. “You know, the old, uh, the old revolver? And I– I’d load up one chamber and just give 'er a spin, ya know?”  
  
The image burns itself clear as day behind Sam’s eyes. Dean, alone in some abandoned building or alley way, the muzzle of dad’s old six shooter pressed against his temple or shoved in his mouth, squeezing the trigger without even a flinch. “How many times?” like it even matters.

Dean looks at him, eyes clear now somehow like he’s gone so far into drunk he’s come out sober. “Thirteen,” he says, almost proud, “thought by the tenth time I'd… I was dead already, you know, inside. Don’t know why I didn’t just pop one in the barrel and be done with it. Guess caus'a that promise I made you. But Sam, I can’t. I’m too old an’ too tired an’ all of this, everything, none of it makes any sense without you. I can’t do it again.” He’s crying, not even trying to hide it anymore, and his hand pulls Sam closer until their lips touch. “I can’t do this without you,” he sobs it into Sam’s lips, and Sam’s heart just finishes breaking all the way.

It’s manipulative, of course. Always is, each time, but they’ve both played this card over the years and besides, the manipulation doesn’t make it any less true. This feels different, though, because  _this_ doesn’t mean  _find dad_ or  _hunting,_ or even  _face the apocalypse_ or _defeat the devil_ _._ The simple, terrifying truth is that it just means  _live._

Sam wraps his arms around Dean and Dean just  _curls up_  like a little boy, his head at Sam’s chest. And it’s different form how they are, usually, but Dean’s trashed. So trashed he probably won’t remember this in the morning, which explains the strikingly un-Dean like behavior (which, really, isn’t all that un-Dean like at all to Sam). So Sam shrugs, holds Dean as he shudders out sobs like Sam didn’t even know he had in him, holds him as he babbles prayers and apologies and pleas to Sam or God or whoever, holds him as he snores and drools and dreams.

And Sam prays too, god does he pray. Prays for an answer. For peace. For Dean. Prays this night wrapped up around his brother never ends. But mostly he prays to forget, forget this night the same way Dean likely will, so the memory of Dean’s confession won’t stop him from doing what he needs to when the time comes.

**Author's Note:**

> title take from the quote _too much of anything is bad, but too much good whiskey is barely enough._ by samuel clemens


End file.
